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Being young you have not known The fool's triumph, nor yet Love lost as soon as won, Nor the best labourer dead And all the sheaves to bind.

William Butler Yeats

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William Butler Yeats
Age: 73 †
Born: 1865
Born: June 13
Died: 1939
Died: January 28
Astrologer
Mystic
Playwright
Poet
Politician
Writer
Scrooby
Nottinghamshire
W. B. Yeats
William Yeats
W.B. Yeats
Lost
Labourers
Young
Bind
Best
Innocence
Love
Triumph
Life
Soon
Fool
Dead
Sheaves
Known
Labourer

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The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.
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If what I say resonates with you, it's merely because we're branches of the same tree.
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Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.
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Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.
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We must not make a false faith by hiding from our thoughts the causes of doubt, for faith is the highest achievement of the human intellect, the only gift man can make to God, and therefore it must be offered in sincerity.
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But boys and girls, pale from the imagined love Of solitary beds, knew what they were, That passion could bring character enough And pressed at midnighht in some public place Live lips upon a plummet-measured face.
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A thought Of that late death took all my heart for speech.
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Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call.
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And wisdom is a butterfly And not a gloomy bird of prey.
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The living can assist the imagination of the dead.
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In luck or out the toil has left its mark: That old perplexity an empty purse, Or the day's vanity, the night's remorse.
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We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.
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Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then.
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When all is said and done, how do we know but that our own unreason may be better than another's truth? for it has been warmed on our hearths and in our souls, and is ready for the wild bees of truth to hive in it, and make their sweet honey.
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Tread softly, for you tread on my dreams
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You ask what I have found and far and wide I go, Nothing but Cromwell's house and Cromwell's murderous crew, The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay, And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen where are they?
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If a poet interprets a poem of his own he limits its suggestibility.
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I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.
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Nor bird nor beast Could make me wish for anything this day, Being old, but that the old alone might die, And that would be against God's Providence.
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I have read somewhere that in the Emperor's palace at Byzantium was a tree made of gold and silver, and artificial birds that sang.
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